


Know That I Am

by kxmjxngs



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Kim Jongdae's Mom, Kim Jongdae-centric, M/M, Marriage, Post-Divorce, Song Lyrics, Unrequited Crush, Weddings, joy jongdae is one of my fave things from showtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kxmjxngs/pseuds/kxmjxngs
Summary: Jongdae is trying to figure out how to deal with the divorce of his parents and how to navigate his new reality. He might not be doing so hot.





	Know That I Am

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, honestly.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> [Important Information]  
> -This story takes place in the States (I didn't want to get South Korean schools and customs wrong, so I just placed them in the States)  
> -Joy Jongdae is what the English subtitles on EXO Showtime would say often for Jongdae (I liked it, so that's why it's in here)  
> -Parents divorcing impacts everyone differently (I have divorced parents; I drew on personal experience for this story)  
> -This story has a lot of time skips (I've now warned you; you can't say I didn't)  
> -Stone Cold by Demi Lovato is the song used (I highly recommend listening to it on repeat while reading this; I wrote this while doing that)

There is something almost lovely about the heart-wrenching expression that decorates his mother’s face, like glass that is fractured internally but somehow remains intact. He could see the dimensions and the gauge the thickness of the glass by looking through it now rather than by the rim, a fascinating quality as the transparency is shattered, but the fragility makes itself clear.

The fragility is what scares him.

He isn’t sure how his mother found out about it, how the events went down, but when she tells him, it’s with the brave face of a soldier who just watched their comrades get slaughtered and is now being sent where their comrades once stood, marching to the same fate—true bravery and strength of will.

He doesn’t want that, though.

He doesn’t want for his mom to look like a soldier going to their doom. He wants her to look as happy as she had two weeks ago with a smile so wide he could swear it hurt her face, not this look of false acceptance, a whirlpool of agony in her brown eyes. He doesn’t want a soldier. He wants his mom.

The Korean sounds thick on her tongue, and he wants to shove the words back into her mouth, make her swallow them, let the acid in her stomach melt them away and leave nothing behind. But he doesn’t want her cells absorbing it, for her to be poisoned by the pain permeating the very air around her, so he lets her speak, listens as their world falls apart around them because this is what he can do.

_This_ is what he can do.

And when the words get harder to get out, and her eyes well up with tears, and her breaths become shaky and she just can’t seem to go on anymore, he wraps his arms around her and sings because that’s what he can do.

_That_ is what he can do.

 

 

 

A harsh tug on the back of his shirt has him stumbling backwards, watching the silver car that had been coming down the road speed past him, not a care in the world even as he is left to blink, stupefied, on the side of the street, witnessing how close he had come to death.

How close he had come to, he cuts off the train of thought, turning around to lock eyes with his savior. “Kyungsoo,” he cries out jovially, flinging his arms around the male only to be shoved off forcefully and almost sent stumbling back into the road he had just been tugged out of.

“Don’t touch me,” Kyungsoo practically yells, and it startles something inside Jongdae, makes bile rise in his throat, his chest ache, but he keeps going, not lingering on the feeling that rests in his chest long after he’s brushed past it externally.

“Why would you tug me out of the way like that,” he questions dramatically, steam-rolling past Kyungsoo’s outburst with an external practiced ease even as the harsh yell echoes in his head and sends uncomfortable jolts of nausea down the lining of his throat and rustles around in his stomach. “I was so close to going to college for free!”

“And in a wheel chair,” Kyungsoo gripes back.

“Temporarily,” Jongdae interjects.

“As if you have that kind of luck,” is what Kyungsoo retorts with, and Jongdae grins, ignoring how the words hit too close to home, adjusting his bag on his shoulders as he finally clambers onto the bus he had been getting ready to board when Kyungsoo pulled him away from his chances at free tuition, Kyungsoo climbing on after him.

“You never know. I’ve been making a lot of wishes on dandelion puffs recently, and I’ve gotten pretty good at blowing them all off in one go.”

“What’s this about blowing multiple people off?”

“Nothing important,” Kyungsoo mutters, his attempt at diverting the topic away from something vulgar falling on deaf ears as Jongdae repeats the last few exchanges to Baekhyun as he plops in the seat next to Kyungsoo, diagonally across from Baekhyun.

“Ah, yes,” Baekhyun comments sagely, turning in his seat so his feet are in the aisle and his back towards the person sitting in the window seat, “dandelion puffs—the penises of nature.” Jongdae doesn’t even get the chance to voice his incredulity at the male’s assessment because Baekhyun is already moving on to say, “I mean, they grow hard with age,” the male ignores Jongdae’s echoing of the words in mirth, “deflower a flower, people like to choose the biggest one, and when you blow it, white stuff with seeds come out, and where the seeds land, a baby flower is born.”

“You’ve made making wishes into a sex joke. I cannot believe you,” Kyungsoo grumbles from next to Jongdae. He subtly shifts to put a couple of inches between them, nausea still tight in his stomach, and ignores Kyungsoo’s quizzical look, rummaging through his bag as cover-up.

“Ah, I think I forgot to do part of the homework missus Fria assigned. Do you think Chanyeol will let me copy?”

“Do you think Chanyeol did it,” is Baekhyun’s snarky reply, and Jongdae huffs, and that’s how they pass the time on the way to school, Kyungsoo only partially listening, Baekhyun with a grin on his face, and Jongdae, his skin feeling prickly and tight all over, plastering on a smile through the nausea that had spread to his head.

 

 

 

He doesn’t tell them.

He doesn’t _need_ to tell them.

They’re his friends. They’ll know if something’s wrong. If they haven’t asked him, then he must be doing better than he thinks he is. He tells himself that so that he’ll get out of bed and brush his teeth; tells himself that he looks better than he thinks he does because the teachers haven’t held him back after class to ask after his well-being.

It’s not so traumatic, if he looks at it objectively, but it still feels like there’s a gaping hole in his life, and it’s vacancy is sucking up all the light around it, constantly drawing attention to itself, making him feel like there’s no oxygen left in his lungs and he can’t even go and ask his father what to do because—

“Honey,” his mother calls, and she sounds feeble, like she might crumble at the slightest tap, insides watery like an egg, a dam ready to burst. He struggles up from the couch and hurries over to her room where she’s busy tucking away clothes into boxes and wrapping picture frames in newspaper. When she sees him, she smiles, and there’s more strength to her expression than there was the day before, and Jongdae thinks that they’re both probably okay since no one’s asked. Maybe they’re the only ones critical enough of themselves to see the changes the days have wrought upon them. “Give me a hand in wrapping this stuff up, would you? We need to have it done for tomorrow morning.”

The room is warm with spring heat, an early one this year, and the windows are open to let the air circulate. He removes and readjusts the headband on his head before shuffling further into the room, ignoring how his shorts cling uncomfortably to the sweat build up between his thighs and under the curve of his rump, the way his underwear hitches and twists with the effects of the heat.

He ignores it and instead focuses on his mother’s expression even as he tucks balled up newspapers into shoes and places them in the box designated for them, completing a row and taking the cut out piece of cardboard and placing it on top of the layer of shoes he’s gotten down before starting on a new layer on top.

His mother doesn’t look much older, ages slowly, but he can see the lines of exhaustion on her face, the bags under her eyes. He stares, and he watches, and he observes—and he thinks.

He thinks of the laugh lines of her face he misses, of the sound of her laughter, of the way she would rope him into singing old Korean ballads, soulful and lyrical somehow turning into corny and giggle-inducing under their combined performance, of the way she would look up lyrics to the English songs he listened to so that she could put them on in the car and sing with him, always surprising him.

He looks at her and he can almost see the laugh lines, almost see the smile, almost hear the ballads and English blending into one in the background.

“It wasn’t bad, you know,” she murmurs, English accented, eyes focused on her task, but Jongdae’s watching and he can see the slight shake in her hands. “It was,” she flounders, blinking up at the ceiling, and Jongdae wonders if she’s feigning confusion and trying to hide tears, “amicable,” she concludes in Korean, and he still doesn’t have an answer to his silent inquiry. “It wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“I know, mom,” he responds softly, walking over and cupping her trembling hands in his.

He feels awful for wondering if it would have been better if it hadn’t been amicable, if they had fought.

 

 

 

“What, you’re seriously going to leave,” Sehun complains, slumping in his seat. Jongdae feels his neck get hot and turns away, bones creaking as he forces his limbs to move through the lethargy, pushing past the irritation welling in his mind.

“Yeah,” he responds, standing up and tugging out his wallet, placing what he surmises is his part of the bill for the hot pot they just ate. It’s probably a little extra, but that doesn’t really bother him. He didn’t have anything else to spend the extra three dollars he probably put down on. “I’m really tired.”

“But you said you’d have dinner with us,” Baekhyun complains, and the others voice their agreement.

“What, I did,” he responds with, trying to put a playful edge to his voice, dredging up the energy from the very recesses of himself. “I’ll see you guys on Monday, yeah?”

It feels like it takes so long to get his limbs responding that when they respond behind him, he doesn’t stop to look back at them or smile, simply continuing to walk out and trudge to the corner where his mom is already waiting like she said she was when he texted her, asking if she could pick him up soon.

“Hey, lovely,” she greets, her eyes bright, brighter than they have been in a while. He thinks it might be the time that’s finally letting her move on, each day letting her heal. “How was dinner? Did you have fun?”

He hums noncommittally, feeling completely drained, barely able to string two words together or even think of doing so, but he pulls himself together enough to place his hand on top of hers over the console before promptly passing out in the passenger seat of the car as she drives towards home.

Her hands are warm when she wakes him up, when she cups his face and wraps an arm around his shoulders, when she helps lead his drowsy, barely conscious self into his room, when she removes his shoes and doesn’t hesitate to help him undress, when she helps him slip on a shirt before turning on his fan, tucking him in and leaving the door open for the air from the air conditioner to enter in small wisps.

“Good night, ‘Dae,” she whispers softly, and her lips are warm when they brush a kiss against the skin of his forehead.

She’s warm, so warm.

He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to leave that warmth.

 

 

 

The meat is warm on his tongue and elastic in his teeth and full in his belly, and he focuses on that sensation solely, the rich seasoning, the strong flavor. He doesn’t listen to his friends’ outraged cries against his taste in meat. It’s good meat, good in the way it’s cooked. He doesn’t understand their inability to appreciate it, but he keeps the words in, looks over at Kyungsoo who is also enjoying the same meat, thinks of how alike they are in this.

He thinks of how different they are in everything else.

Minseok sits next to him, and his knee is solid where it touches his, and he tries not to be distracted by it, focuses on his meat, tunes into the conversations his friends are having. It’s only five of them today, and Jongdae feels like the odd-man out.

Jongin is talking to Kyungsoo about something or other, he can’t really make it out, and Minseok is talking to Luhan about a soccer match that took place the other night. Jongdae can’t hear what Jongin’s saying, so joining in that conversation is out, and he’s pretty certain that Minseok and Luhan don’t care about the Phineas and Ferb episode he watched the other day for probably the fifth time.

He knows that it’s not on purpose that they do this, so he ignores the jolts and puts some meat in his mouth and eats.

And when they go to karaoke later, he watches them have fun, smiles and laughs, has a good time. And when they break off into their side groups again, talking about things he can’t relate to, can’t get his mouth around, can’t formulate the words in his head, he turns to the screen and sings because that’s what he can do.

_That_ is what he can do.

He watches Kyungsoo eat the nachos he ordered from the small menu they were given, watches him slap Jongin’s hand away when the male tries to take one. He watches Minseok pull up a clip from the soccer match on his phone, the corners of Luhan’s eyes crinkling as he looks at the scene depicted and gesticulates excitedly about something regarding it. Jongdae can’t really hear them over the sound of the music playing, over the sound of his own voice as he murmurs the lyrics into the microphone, finding the fun in being alone in a group.

He thinks of his mother and her ballads and her accented English as she bounces in the car with Jongdae to songs they both only sort of know from the frequency they play and not because they actually like them. He thinks of his friends laughing beside him, of Baekhyun who would join him and harmonize when Jongdae sings on the bus whenever Kyungsoo lets him share his headphones—how Kyungsoo will scoot away with a face colored in embarrassment, taking back his ear bud with a slight glare, of Jongin and how he devours any chicken laid in front of him, of Chanyeol and how he lovingly prepares any food his friends ask for whenever they decide to hang out at his place. He thinks of them all.

He thinks of going to vocal lessons tomorrow, and his throat closes up and the words shake slightly, but the song is over, so it doesn’t matter. He looks at the perfect score on the screen next to the random eighties song he had selected, looking at the lit pixels and wondering if he looks like that.

Would anyone notice if one pixel wasn’t working if the whole image stays the same? A small, miniscule square that you can’t quite make out—would anyone notice?

He looks over at the four people now congratulating him on his perfect score, at the smiles on their faces, the smile that automatically pulls on his own lips.

He discards the thought.

They would notice.

They’re his friends.

 

 

 

“This piece is going to be great,” his vocal instructor tells him, and he smiles, pulling on the small ember of excitement inside of him and trying to nurse it into a fire. It doesn’t burn quite like it normally does, but he pushes the notion that it’s damaged away. “You’ve really improved. I think that there’s still something’s we can tweak, but you’ve got all the mechanics down pretty solidly.”

“Awesome,” is really the only thing Jongdae can think of saying to voice his joy, and the word is pronounced brightly despite how it kind of feels like a lie. He means it. He _knows_ he means it. Maybe his mouth just isn’t working right. Maybe if he sang it, it’ll sound more genuine.

He keeps quiet, letting the word hang in the air.

“Let’s work on fixing up these few notes right here, make sure you’re supporting them enough, and then all that’s left is adding your own personal flair.”

He pushes aside any thoughts of the things going on in his life as his instructor settles down at the piano, playing the notes and looking up at Jongdae who licks his lips, listening to the lead up to his cue before opening his mouth and singing.

His eyes slip shut on the high notes, opening as he drops back down, corners of his lips pulling in, jaw dropping, and tongue tapping at the backs of his teeth. He could feel the vibrations in his throat, could feel the brush of air on the roof of his mouth. The song would stretch out in from of him like the yellow brick road, and his voice would skip along the tiles as the piano whispers instructions.

“Very good,” his instructor comments again, and the smile that automatically springs forth on Jongdae’s lips feels a bit more genuine. “You’re going to do brilliantly at the recital and your auditions.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles; his face heating as his instructor stands and places a hand on his shoulder, eyes kind and smile blinding.

“Remember to use your voice as little as possible leading up to it, okay? And don’t forget to warm-up.”

“I know; you tell me every time.”

“And I’ll continue to tell you until I die,” his instructor grins, giving a light shove to his shoulder. “Run along now, okay? You look like you could use some sleep.”

Jongdae’s smile twitches, but he manages to keep it on and bids his teacher a good day before exiting the room, tucking the folder with his music into his bag. He does his utmost to think as little of his instructor’s last sentence, but the words continue to ring in his head long after he gets home.

 

 

 

He has been busy lately—they both have. He keeps trying to remind himself of this fact, but it keeps slipping away from him, sloshing to the other side of his brain, cowering in fear of the bitterness that threatens to line his thoughts.

His father looks good, happy. His eyes are bright, his hair groomed, face clean-shaven, body clothed in a fitted button-down and slacks. It was odd. He remembered his father with tired expressions and cargo shorts with slightly ill-fitting short sleeve button-downs that made his arms seem thinner than they were and his shoulders less broad.

Jongdae couldn’t help but wonder if the reason he always only saw his father that way was because he only saw him on his downtime when he wasn’t working long hours constantly away from home. He would like to think that his dad put some effort in around him and his mom, but images of his dad dressed as he was now didn’t surface, and he settled on accepting the odd new reality he found himself in.

“Jongdae,” a voice calls off to the side and when he looks over he sees that it’s Yixing, following the waitress to his table, Jongin lingering a few steps back to marvel at the coy pond in the front of the restaurant, leaning over the railing of the bridge. Yixing’s smile is blinding, dimple as endlessly deep as always, leaving their waitress for a second to jog over quickly and give him a hug, bowing in apology to Jongdae’s father for interrupting. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“You’ve been busy,” Jongdae responds with, looking over at the male. Yixing shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, not denying it. They both knew it was true. Everyone had been busy the last few months.

“My grandparents want to go on a cruise soon, so I’ve been helping them plan,” Yixing mumbles, smile still in place. It’s infectious and Jongdae feels his own lips tugging up into a genuine smile for the first time that day. It feels good to have the tension in his face finally lessen, like a rubber band that’s pulled taut finally being released. “You look tired. Are you not sleeping well?”

Rubber bands that suddenly lose their tension go sailing through the air, though, and Jongdae feels like he was just launched across the room, stomach seeming to have taken a temporary vacation as it swoops away, the nausea forming a ball in his throat.

“Yixing,” Jongin calls from by their waitress that has been politely waiting for them.

“Ah, I have to go. I’ll text you later.”

Jongdae watches his friend walk away, turns to his father and faces his smiling face. The corners of his lips turn up automatically, but he feels the tension building again, a rubber band being stretched, prepared for its next launch.

He crawls into bed with his mom that night, lets her warm arms surround him, lets her voice that’s still hoarse from sleep wash over him, lets her whisper the assurances he’s craved to hear all day into his hair, desperately clinging to it.

“We’re okay, Jongdae. We’re okay.”

The words help ease him into a light sleep along with her fingers carding through his hair, warm lengths along his scalp, and the sound of her heart beat beneath his head, rising and falling and _warm_. He wakes in a daze, feeling unable to move, head filled with cotton, only conscious because of the light streaming in through the blinds.

His mom is somehow already dressed when he can barely get his body to cooperate enough to dredge him out of unconsciousness. Two people said he looked tired. Too people thought he didn’t look alright.

His usual mantra, he found, broke under the simple words of two people. With it went whatever strength he had to get himself out of bed.

“Stay and sleep,” his mom whispers to him, carding her warm, _warm_ , fingers through his hair, making his eyelids droop already. “I already called in your absence. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

The Korean gets muddled in his head, but he manages to parse the meaning and hums in muffled gratitude, shifting to take advantage of the warm spot his mother’s body had left. “Love you, mom,” he mumbles, the Korean slurred, feeling almost foreign on his tongue this early in the morning, so used to speaking only English this early.

“I love you, too, Jongdae.” Her warm fingers return, this time at the nape of his neck, making his spine tingle. “Get some rest.”

He listens to her footsteps as she walks down the hall, listens to the door open and close, listens to the turn of the lock, listens to the air conditioning kicking on again to cool down the rooms, and he listens to his own soft breaths until he can barely hear them anymore and the sounds of the air conditioning fall away as sleep claims him once more.

This is good. He didn’t have the strength to get up anyways.

 

 

 

Jongdae isn’t actually sure what attracted him to Kyungsoo to begin with, honestly. If someone asked him, he could probably wax poetic, but in the confines of his own mind, he really couldn’t say. The answer that sounds the closest to the truth is simply familiarity.

He guesses that’s why he doesn’t say much of anything when it turns out Kyungsoo and Chanyeol have decided to start dating in light of receiving acceptance letters from the same college, a final confirmation that it would be okay to start a relationship right now with barely two months left in the year.

He’s happy for them, undoubtedly so, but his heart clenches when he sees them, and his stomach turns. He thinks that it’s normal, he knows it is, but he feels even more horrible when he excuses himself even earlier than usual from group activities because he can’t see them together like that for so long.

It’s not even that they’re very lovey-dovey, except that they are. Kyungsoo lets Chanyeol sit as close as he wants, lets him put an arm around his shoulders. Chanyeol lets Kyungsoo hide smiles in his shoulder, lets him slap his thigh when he gets excited. They let each other steal from the other’s plate, let each other whisper things they don’t want the others to hear in the other’s ear.

It seems so mundane, but the new air around them makes Jongdae feel mildly ill and drains him of energy even faster than simply hanging out with everyone usually does, irritation climbing rapidly. Not excusing himself would be a disaster, so he leaves earlier, loiters in the restrooms longer than usual in attempts to collect himself, to gather some energy, so that he can stay longer, but it vaporizes like water past it’s boiling point the second he sits down again, so he gathers his wits and sends a text to his mom asking if she can pick him up.

He tries not to think about the one time he called her on the verge of tears, so beyond irritated with his friends and the world in general, energy almost gone, that he couldn’t even see the keyboard of his phone and called her while waiting on the curb.

His friends tease each other constantly about the newfound relationship between the two, and he wants to join in, but the words get stuck in his throat, so he laughs instead, more like constant guffaws then laughter, sharp exhalations squeezed past the ball of words.

His friends poke fun of him for that in turn.

It feels like he’s okay, but also like he’s not, but he likes the okay better, so he chooses that as his answer if anyone asks—no one usually does, though.

It pays to look like you’re always smiling, sometimes, he thinks, watching Kyungsoo smack Chanyeol over the head after the guy said something ridiculous and vulgar in response to a comment Baekhyun made.

It certainly pays.

 

 

 

The invitation is unexpected and catches both him and his mom off-guard. It hasn’t been that long, only a couple of months, but the words typed in elegant calligraphy on the thick white page make it seem otherwise.

He looks at his mom, looks at the trembling smile on her lips, the slight shake in her hand as she hands the letter over to Jongdae and goes about cooking, movements just a little sharper, just a little weaker. He calls over to her, fingers limply grasping the page, and her voice is steady when she speaks, but her shoulders hunch as she stops her movements.

“He’s getting married, ‘Dae. He’s inviting us to the wedding.”

It feels like he’s the sailing rubber band again, and he’s just been shot as far as possible. “Married,” he echoes, and the word tastes bitter on his lips. He wants to scrape his tongue free of the acrid taste it leaves on it, swallow some soap and hope to purge his insides of the dirty feeling it leaves in him. “Married,” the word slips out again, unbidden, and he bites his tongue to stop it from coming out a third. “Time has barely passed. How is he getting married?” His mom’s shoulders hunch further. “Mom,” he hedges, stepping closer a bit, “he didn’t—please tell me he didn’t—”

“He didn’t,” the words ring honest in her voice, but Jongdae feels like they’re false because it _doesn’t make sense._ “Let’s just—I’m just going to finish lunch, okay? We’ll talk about it later.”

Jongdae swallows thickly, but doesn’t object, walking out of the kitchen with heavy limbs. His room feels vacant as he stumbles in, and the card feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in his fingers. He’s not entirely convinced it makes no noise when he lets it slip and flutter to the ground. For how much it’s weighing on his mind, it must weigh so much more physically.

He feels like he just got a paper cut in his stomach and the acid is spilling into the wound and eating at his unprotected organs. He slumps on the bed, kicking his feet uselessly, eyes helplessly trained on the white square.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters to himself. “ _You_ are being ridiculous.”

Saying the words out loud doesn’t make him believe it anymore, though, so he gives up fairly quickly, continuing to stare even as his fingers fumble for his phone, stiff and uncoordinated, and click on his most trustee contact, his lips trembling as he inhales slowly, trying to regulate his heart.

He knows he’s being ridiculous. It was going to happen at some point. Both he and his mom knew, but he had managed to delude himself into thinking he wouldn’t have to deal with it for some time, into thinking he would remain as broken up about it as his mother and not enter the dating scene for a good few months. He feels naïve and stupid and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

On the fourth ring, the male he’s calling picks up, and he can’t help but smile at the voice that greets him even if the reaction feels heavy and energy consuming on his face and falls as quickly as it appears.

“Joy,” Junmyeon greets over the phone, chipper as usual, somehow managing to be perky despite the fact that Jongdae knows the guy is neck deep in final projects for the end of the year at university. His voice makes the knot in his stomach loosen slightly, and he uses the slight burst of energy to tear his eyes away from the letter and lay down on his bed, rolling over to face the wall and put his back to the offending piece of paper burning a hole into his floor.

“Junmyeon,” he responds in kind, wondering how his voice manages to come out steady and bright despite barely feeling like he’s even experiencing the conversation completely. “How goes the education?”

Junmyeon gives a breathy laugh. “It goes. You know how it is. Final projects are tough, but I’m getting them done.”

“You’re not overworking yourself, right?”

“Are you worried for me,” the teasing lilt to his voice makes another smile pull on Jongdae’s lips that feels like it appears slightly easier than the other one.

“More like I’m worried about your debt—I have favors I haven’t cashed in yet.”

“That’s all I’m good for to you,” Junmyeon asks dramatically, and Jongdae can picture him with a hand over his heart and a mock affronted look on his face. The image almost startles a laugh out of him, making his shoulders relax just a bit.

Jongdae hums. “Well, you also bring me back presents, so you’re good for that, too.”

“I’m good for everything,” Junmyeon scoffs teasingly, and Jongdae shakes his head even if the guy can’t see the action, holding back any noise that might come out. Laughing at any of Junmyeon’s jokes would be a dead giveaway that something was wrong, and he’s not sure he can explain it if the guy asks.

He hasn’t had to say it out loud since it started. His friends come to his house constantly; they know—or, at least, he assumes they do—and his mom talked to her own friends about it, let them help her through the tough bits when Jongdae just wasn’t enough sometimes. The words haven’t once come out, and he wonders if maybe that’s why every change keeps hitting so hard, like if he said the words out loud, solid and irredeemable, the situation would feel more real and he wouldn’t be feeling likes he’s fraying because of a wedding that’s arriving in a month and a half.

“How are things with you,” Junmyeon asks after a period of time, probably realizing that he isn’t going to get a reaction out of Jongdae when it comes to his lame attempts at humor. Jongdae thinks that the funniest thing is Junmyeon’s constant attempts. Maybe he would throw him a bone one of these days and at least smile, but that would be in person.

He’d probably regret it almost immediately afterwards.

“Things are fine,” he lets the words slip out easily. It tastes like ash in his mouth, and he coughs a bit, clearing his throat, closing his eyes and wishing the words to be true. He’s fine. Things are fine. Everything is fine. He just has to believe that.

“That’s good! Why are you calling, then?”

“What? I can’t just call for fun?” A silence hangs over the phone for the briefest of seconds, but it feels like an eternity stretches in those milliseconds and Jongdae feels like he’s drowning in them.

“It’s not that,” Junmyeon replies easily enough, but Jongdae feels like it took too long for the words to get out of his mouth, like Junmyeon doesn’t want him to call, like there’s a small chance he might be sick. “You just don’t usually call at this time. I thought something might be up.”

He doesn’t—there isn’t anything up. He can call whenever he wants; that’s the point of a phone. He doesn’t understand. Maybe he usually calls after seven at night, but noon is a perfectly reasonable time. There’s nothing wrong. “Well, maybe I should just hang up and call you later. Would that make you feel better?” He keeps the words light and cheery, but his finger hovers over the ‘end call’ button.

Junmyeon laughs. “I mean, I’d certainly have more time to talk to you then. I’m in the middle of finishing up an assignment right now, actually.” Jongdae holds back a wince even though Junmyeon doesn’t sound bothered at all.

“Ouch, that’s rough. I’ll leave you to it,” Jongdae hurries to respond with before the silence stretches too long.

“Call or text me later, okay? I should be done by then.”

“Will do,” he sing-songs, listening to the soft chuff of air that he’s pretty sure is the one Junmyeon lets out when he’s smiling and shaking his head fondly.

“Talk to you later, Joy.”

The line goes silent and Junmyeon hangs up and it feels oppressive, like he’s just been left even though it was a mutual decision to cut the call there. He feels like an idiot, laying there with his phone still pressed to his ear even though the line’s dead, his back to a piece of paper that feels like a million tons—top class idiot material.

“Jongdae,” his mother’s voice calls, soft and warm, his door opening under her gentle hand. He hears her step in, listen to the rustle of her clothes and the scrape of the blasted card on the floor as she picks it up. He forces his limbs to move and rotate him around to face his mother, shoving himself up to sit as she moves closer and perches on the end of his bed next to him. “She’s a nice woman,” his mother opens up with after a few moments of silence where they both just stared at the letter. His eyes fix on the side of her face, wide and bewildered.

“You met her? You knew?”

She nods her head, her eyelashes fluttering, and Jongdae still doesn’t know where his long lashes came from because neither his father nor mother has them. There is a light sheen of moisture over her eyes, like she might cry again or like she cried so much while cooking that her eyes are still battling to deal with the irritation. “He asked me to sing at the wedding.”

“Did you say yes?”

She nods, and Jongdae almost flinches when she finally turns her head and meets his eyes. “Sing with me,” she pleads, and her hand is warm when she reaches out and cups one of Jongdae’s in both of hers, the card left abandoned on the edge of the bed. “I want to show him that I’m okay with it—that we’re okay with it. I want to show him that we can still be a family like this.”

Jongdae isn’t sure _she’s_ okay with this. He’s not sure if _he’s_ okay with this. He isn’t sure if _they’re_ both anywhere _close_ to okay with all of this. Jongdae’s not even sure they can be a _family_ like this.

He’s not sure if he even wants to be.

His mother’s hands are warm, though, where they cup his one and even if he’s not okay with this now, he wants to think that he will eventually. He wants to think that they’ll both be okay with this eventually. He wants to think that this new reality they’ve found themselves in won’t continue to follow their every step like it has been.

He thinks that’s why he says yes and let’s her wrap her arms around him, whispering soft phrases of gratitude into his hair while he just sits there and breathes in her soft scent and feels warm, arms coming up to embrace her back.

 

 

 

Jongdae tosses the letter he just received aside, carding his fingers through his hair in frustration. He’s not sure how much more stress he can handle before he snaps. Final projects are looming over him and he has no idea what he’s doing, just knows he needs to pass. He can feel the stress building in him because he hasn’t heard back from the university all of his friends applied to even though they have. He can feel the anxiety curling in his stomach because the wedding is soon and he still hasn’t managed to stomach the reality of it. He can feel his stress mounting because his throats been sore the last few days and no matter how many lozenges he pops or how much steam he breathes in or how much honey he slurps down, it doesn’t seem to be improving.

His mother doesn’t seem to be faring much better in the anxiety department. She seems about ready to burst, and he thinks that maybe they both need to do something fun for the night—get away from each other and the things they keep reminding themselves about.

“Have a good time, mom, okay? I’ll see you later,” Jongdae calls to her, smiling and waving from where he stands in the open doorway, making a huge spectacle as his mom walks down the driveway, shaking her head fondly even as she waves back at him, her friend giving him a wave from where she’s situated in the driver’s seat of the car. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“That’s quite a lot of things,” she calls back.

“I am not that adventurous!”

“No take backs,” his mother’s friend calls out the window and they pull off into the road, Jongdae’s whine descending into open air and falling on only his own ears.

He stares at the road for a few more moments before finally turning and shuffling back indoors, thinking about how much he wants to invite his friends over right now, but he really needs to finish his projects. He can’t leave them till the last minute or his laziness will catch up to him and he’ll get a poor grade—and colleges still look at his final grades. He can’t afford to have colleges deciding they didn’t like his final performance and not accept him anymore.

It serves as decent motivation and has him getting his work done in record time—three hours being record time for three projects—and a glance at the clock says it’s only eight, so he tugs out his phone and sends a message into the group chat, hoping someone will be willing to hang with him.

Sehun’s the first to respond, saying that he’ll be there in roughly fifteen minutes, clearly bored out of his mind on a Friday night. Junmyeon is next, probably eager to finally be able to actually reunite with his friends after having been back in town for two days already and having seen no one yet. After that, everyone responds, saying they’re down to hang and will arrive soon, and it eases some of the tension Jongdae hadn’t realized had been gathering in his chest.

He doesn’t even care that he’s going to be witnessing Chanyeol and Kyungsoo being all couple-y in his own living room, or that they’re all going to bicker over what food to order, or that Yifan is probably going to almost break something, or that Yixing will probably end up falling asleep halfway through the silly festivities.

He just can’t wait to see them.

 

 

 

His mother decided to bring one of her dearest friends to the ceremony and reception, one that stood by her through everything that happened, the ups and downs, thick and thin. Jongdae thinks it’s beautiful, how strong their friendship is even at their age, how it continues to survive the test of time. He hopes he and his friends are like that.

His mom tells him to bring one of his friends along as a plus one. He knows she’s suggesting that to him because _she_ feels like she’ll need someone there and wants him to have someone in case _he_ feels like he needs someone, but her words make him wonder if his agony over this is really so obvious. He tells her he will, though, but doesn’t know who to bring quite yet.

He considers Minseok and Baekhyun immediately because they’re both so similar to him in temperament. Baekhyun is similar to his lighthearted nature and his noisiness, and he’s able to make any serious situation funny and happy. Minseok is similar to his calmness and his dedication, and he’s sturdy when things are rough. He discards them both almost as quickly as he considers them, though, because they’re both too emotionally unavailable for this. Baekhyun flounders in serious situations and his knee-jerk reaction of saying something amusing would only serve to Jongdae’s detriment at the wedding—of that, he’s sure of. Minseok turns rigid in emotional situations, almost completely inaccessible unless he’s given ample time to process things, and Jongdae won’t have that kind of time at the wedding, will probably need someone constantly, and Minseok’s detachment technique will only make him feel alone.

He lumps Kyungsoo and Chanyeol in with the other two for obvious reasons. The two were together and even though it would be platonic, their relationship is new and Jongdae knows they’re still feeling things out. He hopes they’re not like cliché movie couples that fight over one of them even looking at someone else, but he also knows that they’re still figuring out boundaries and working on insecurities and regardless of how long they’ve all known each other, Jongdae asking either of them might end up with the stepping of some toes. He refuses to be that guy.

He considers Luhan, but he knows for a fact that the guy is busy. He has sectionals or something sports related—some big game or other. Jongdae wanted to be there to support him, but—stuff happens.

Yifan would be nice to take. He cleans up well, and he’s charming, but Jongdae also knows he’s silly and he doesn’t think this kind of thing is up his alley. He’s pretty sure no one other than Junmyeon and, possibly, Tao could convince Yifan to come to something like this—although he doesn’t doubt that Yifan will gladly comfort him later if he sought him out.

Junmyeon he can’t take, the poor guy having gotten sick finally after the pressures of exams and final projects and travelling. Jongdae still isn’t sure why the guy took so many classes to begin with, but it was bound to catch up to him. He makes a mental note to visit Junmyeon with some soup later. Tao is out because he has training. His test to advance in his martial arts class is coming up and he’s working extra hard on top of school projects to pass with flying colors. Jongdae doesn’t want to distract him.

It comes down to Sehun, Jongin, and Yixing.

Yixing is his first choice, being older than Jongdae and Sehun and Jongin. He has an easy air about him, and Jongdae knows he can readily seek comfort from the guy. He’s probably one of the gentlest out of his friends, and he’s definitely one of the more emotionally available ones—one of the most, in all honesty. It’s not even a real contest as to who Jongdae would prefer to take.

Sehun and Jongin—there’s nothing wrong with them. Jongdae would gladly take either, but Sehun is quiet with surges of strong emotions, and Jongdae isn’t sure how he would fare being in close quarters with both himself and his mother being as high strung as he knows they will be. Jongin would be much the same, considering the fact that Jongin is hopelessly awkward and a bit ‘not with it’. Jongdae can already hear his nervous laughter in his head during periods where there should be silence.

He doesn’t think either of them would fare well in the high tension blanket he and his mom are going to be smothered in.

Jongdae’s not even sure _he’s_ going to fare well in it.

Mind made up, he takes a look at the fabric spread out on top of his sheets. It’s the suit he wore for prom, well fitted black, pant legs ending just a bit higher than his ankles. He isn’t sure how appropriate it is for a wedding, but the thought of going shopping for a suit makes bile rise in the back of his throat and his palms sweat.

It’s too real, too real—all _too real._

He can’t deal with it, all of it, any of it—an endless record in his head keeps reminding him, making his breath shake as it comes out and burn as it enters, makes his stomach shudder and his knees lock to the point that when he slides down the wall to curl into a ball it’s with the sensation of his bones snapping and shattering, of jagged edges scraping at the underside of his skin, catching and tugging on nerve endings and splitting apart muscle tissue.

He had to figure this out today, though. He can’t let his mother down. He can’t. He _can’t_.

He has to be there.

He _has to_ sing.

He promised.

He said he would.

That’s what he can do.

_That_ is what he can do.

Shaking hands tug his phone free of the trappings of his pant pocket, sliding across the screen and leaving a slightly damp trail, distorting the image presented on his screen just slightly, letting him see the rainbow of colors being projected behind his screen to make up the image his fingers are tapping on. It makes his fingers spasm in a brief moment of increased hesitation before he hurriedly taps the number, wiping away the rainbow with the edge of his sleeve, throat tight.

The phone is a shocking cold against his ear, but the voice that comes through sends vibrations of warmth down his spine. “Hey,” he croaks out after a bit of silence, trying to make his breathing less audible, thanking his level of voice control for keeping the syllable steady.

“What’s up?” Yixing responds with, and Jongdae wonders if the guy knows how perceptive he is, is aware of the concern dotting his voice. He wonders if maybe he’s imagining it all. Maybe the concern isn’t there—maybe he’s so desperate that he’s imagining it. “Is everything okay?”

Okay, seriously, what the fuck, Jongdae thinks, but he doesn’t say anything, gazing blankly ahead, the black of his suit lingering in the corner of his vision. “Everything’s fine; I just,” he hesitates, lets his tongue dip out and wet the corner of his lips before pursing them, letting out a harsh breath. “There’s a wedding—a wedding I have to,” another deep breath in and out, “to go to. I was wondering,” burn in his lungs, tremor in his lips, “just wondering if you’d, maybe, be okay with coming with me?”

“Wedding,” Yixing repeats, considering, and Jongdae pretends the sound of the word doesn’t have bile rising in his throat, purposefully tilting his head back and feeling the coolness of the wall slowly seeping past his hair and into the skin of his scalp. “I’d be happy to,” he finally says after a bit, and Jongdae listens to the sound of rustling. “When is it?”

Jongdae’s breath shudders out of his in a relieved rush, eyes pressing shut firmly, swallowing thickly, and he feels like whatever rigidity had been holding him up is gone, body sagging limply. The feeling doesn’t go away even after he’s said his good-bye’s to Yixing and hung up, even after having dragged himself to Junmyeon’s with some homemade soup, even after he’s helped his mom choose out the perfect dress and meticulously ironed his suit so that he won’t have to worry anymore about it as the day inches closer.

It doesn’t go away even when he slumps into bed, exhausted and slipping into unconsciousness quickly.

 

 

 

His father’s hands are cool—always have been. Jongdae likes them, but not as much as he likes his mother’s warm one. The coolness of his touch was always a comfort whenever Jongdae would give him a hug during the summer months and he would be in town for a bit. They were strong hands, good hands.

Now, they feel like a stranger’s hands, stranger’s fingers pinching his cheek, stranger’s palm sliding from nape to his shoulder, stranger’s nails scratching his scalp. He wants to shy away from the touch, but he hates the prospect of doing that, too, so he lets it happen instead.

His father’s smile was always easy, effortless. It would pull on his cheeks and reveal his teeth, and it practically oozed charisma. Jongdae had always hated it. He didn’t hate the happiness reflected in it, but the showmanship of it. It made him feel, sometimes, like he was someone to be won over, not like he was a son. He liked his mother’s smile with its difficulty, the way it brought out her laugh lines, made the stress melt from her face, exuded genuine joy with its presence. There was nothing false about her—her genuine and fake smiles so different, unlike his father’s.

He didn’t hate his dad.

He’s not sure he could.

He treated his mother well, didn’t cheat. He didn’t abuse her; there was always food on the table and a roof over his head and clothes on his back. He didn’t neglect them, called when he could spare the time, when he couldn’t.

That’s what made it difficult, Jongdae supposed. It would be easier if his dad had been a bad man, had done most things wrong, had been ill-equipped to be a father But his father wasn’t like that at all. He tried his best to make it work.

Jongdae guesses he just got tired. It was bound to happen eventually. It was high stakes, family and work, and it was a balancing act that drained his of his energy, most likely. Jongdae hates thinking of it like that, though. It makes him feel like it’s his fault, like he’s the reason his mother is sad, the reason his family fell apart. It was easier before he was born. It was easier before he started growing and his dad was missing all the big milestones. It was easier before he existed. If he just hadn’t— _if he just hadn’t_ —

 

 

 

“ _If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace_.”

The words keep echoing in Jongdae’s head, making the muscle in his throat jump every time, ready to say he does, he objects, but how firmly he presses his lips together keeping the words inside. He watches how tightly his mom holds onto her friend’s hands, how they lean into each other. He considers his own rigidity and Yixing’s contemplating look as he observes the ceremony taking place around him.

“You never said,” Yixing finally speaks during the reception, looking at the grass beneath their dress shoes. It tickles at their exposed ankles; makes Jongdae swallow thickly as he looks away, sucking on the lozenge in his mouth.

“I didn’t think I had to,” he admits quietly, looking up as the bright sound of laughter reaches his ears, head turning to take in one of the tables of guests. “I thought you guys knew.”

Yixing hums, leaning back in his chair. Jongdae can’t tell if the guy is offended or not, but he doesn’t think he has the stomach to question it. He’s not sure he has the strength to get up when the room silences, his brain barely processing the sound of his name being called.

His eyes slide over the heads of people, meet his mother’s where she’s sitting on stage, microphone clutched shakily in her hand. He’s not sure he can move, knees locking, lozenge dismantled into a pool of saliva on his tongue, combating the taste of the bile that threatens to finally erupt past his lips with every frantic beat of his heart. His mother’s eyes are slightly panicked, and his heart beats harder, blood rushing in his ears.

He knows he should move.

He _has_ to move.

The first notes of the song start playing, and Jongdae hears his mother’s voice come through the speaker’s, and maybe that’s what makes him spring into motion, or maybe it’s the sound of the tremor in his mother’s voice, or maybe it’s the glisten of tears at the corners of his eyes, or maybe it’s a combination of all of it.

It’s too real, too real—all _too real_.

And maybe that’s what makes him move in the end, knees snapping and breaking, bones scraping and tugging, tendons stretching and fraying, propelling him across the expanse of green and up to the stage, arms coming up and wrapping tight around his mother as her voice shakes again and the Korean dries up in her throat and she can’t get the words out anymore.

The warmth has left her hands, leaving them clammy and stiff as Jongdae gently takes the microphone from her. He doesn’t want to sing, can’t process the Korean of the song he and his mother had planned, can’t think, can’t breathe. But he can hear his mother’s hushed, shaking breathing of, “We promised, Jongdae. Give me back the microphone. We promised.”

“I got this, okay?” he whispers softly, lips curling up automatically into a smile that he hopes she finds comforting, microphone scraping lightly against his bottom lip, lump forming, throat clogging up, but he pushes past it all.

He hadn’t rehearsed this, hadn’t planned this, hadn’t tried this, but he can feel the shake of his mother’s shoulders under his arm. Passing her off to her friend is easy, letting her take care of getting her off of stage, tries not to think too hard about the rage of feelings inside of him that’s been building for months, of the soreness in his throat, of the stress of exams and final projects, of the fact that none of his friends even _knew_ when he thought it had been so obvious.

“Stone,” deep breath in, “cold,” deep breath out, “stone,” in, “cold,” the words filter through the microphone, and he doesn’t focus on the band trying to the find the equilibrium or the silence that falls. “You see me standing while I’m dying on the floor.” The lump in his throat is tightening, but he pushes past it. “Stone cold, stone cold—maybe if I don’t cry, I won’t feel anymore.”

He looks up at the sky, finds the moon dipped into its waning cycle. “Stone cold,” dip up, “baby,” back down, “God knows I try to feel,” deep breaths. He has two nostrils to breathe with. He just needs to breathe. “Happy for you, know that I am. Even if I,” deep breath in, let his eyes close, “can’t understand. I’ll take the pain, give me the truth. Me and my heart, we’ll make it through.”

His lungs shudder with the next breath, but expand obligingly, his ribs shifting under the force, eyes sliding open to meet his father’s in his seat. “If happy is her,” sustain, hold, and breathe out, slow, smooth, “I’m happy for you.”

He can barely hear the sound of the band regaining their senses, of the piano chiming in softly, the other instruments following. He can barely hear anything over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, of his heart thumping wildly in his throat. His eyes burn, his lungs burn, and his stomach aches, but his eyes seek out his father’s, search again for his mother’s and sees the same pain he’s been feeling reflected in hers, feels the dam inside him cracking.

“Stone cold, stone cold—you’re dancing with her while I’m staring at my phone.” Chip, chip, chipping away at the cement the chisel goes, and he wants to bandage it all up before the crack grows anymore, but he can’t. “Stone cold, stone cold—I was your amber, but now she’s your shade of gold. Stone cold,” breathe, “baby,” he lets the tension build in his shoulders, feels the creak in his limbs as his fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt above his stomach. “God knows I try to feel,” he can feel himself shaking.

“Happy for you, know that I am—even if I can’t understand. I’ll take the pain. Give me the truth. Me and my heart, we’ll make it through.” His fingers clasp the microphone tighter, hot and damp with sweat, head pounding, lungs straining. Breathe, breathe— _breathe_ —he needs to breathe. “If,” run it up, up, up, “happy is her,” run it down, “I’m happy for you.”

His hair is a mess, the back of his neck beading sweat and dampening the locks there. His fingers tangle in the front locks, carding through clumsily. “Don’t want to be stone cold, stone—”

He chokes, and it’s easier if it’s him and not his mom up here. He doesn’t want his mother going through this, feeling this level of tension, of pain, building and building. He feels like he’s being smothered, drawing in his final breaths, throwing caution to the wind, ignoring the wise words of his vocal teacher, feeling his muscle clench as his lungs expand, as his ribs crack and snap and disintegrate into dust.

“I wish I could mean this, but here’s my good-bye,” he can hear the thickness of the emotion in his voice, feels himself teetering, spreads his legs to stabilize himself, knees bending slightly. His hand trembles in the air, extended in front of him, fingers spread. He turns away, can’t bear to meet the eyes of anyone else.

“Oh,” his mind feels like it’s falling apart, fraying at the edges, tearing apart at the seams. He thinks of his mother and father, of the woman sitting next to his dad. He thinks of Kyungsoo and Chanyeol, of the twist in his gut. He thinks of Yixing telling him he looks tired, of the perceptive concern that colored his voice. He thinks of the empty seat at his recital, of the empty seat on the rides to his auditions. He thinks the heavy card. He thinks of the mess of a year he’s had. “I’m happy for you,” His eyes squeeze shut.

“Know that I am, even if I,” deep breaths, “can’t,” run it through, support it, breathe, “understand. If happy is her,” he breathes in. “If happy is,” breathe, “her,” sustain, support, let it fill, let it flow—don’t cry.

It’s too real, too real—all _too real_.

But he sings.

He sings because that’s what he can do.

_That_ is all he _can_ do.

He can’t get enough air into his lungs anymore. It feels like he’s wrapped in barbed wire, the needles scraping and digging into his skin, making every movement sting and ache and pulse with sensation, nerve endings aflame, brain in chaos with the bombardment of signals.

“I’m happy for you.”

The tears surprise him, hot lines searing down his face, startling him into the reality of the moment, making his lashes clump as he blinks them out of his vision, hand trembling as he places the microphone back on the stand. His father’s eyes are wet, his mother’s cheeks are, too, but he can’t keep looking at them.

His legs shake as he walks off the stage, barely managing not to stumble on the grass as he walks past the tables, past the audience, past the band, past Yixing, walking until his legs can’t carry him anymore and he collapses into a heap on the ground, tears like drops of acid on his skin, on the grass, nails scoring into the skin of his scalp, hair barely a barrier or protection.

He can’t scream, can’t breathe—can’t make a single sound. His mouth is open, he knows it is, can feel the pull of the skin, the ugly twist of his mouth, the scrape of the wind against his teeth and tongue, but no sound escapes past the ball in his throat, past the sting in his vocal chords, past the mess in his head.

Arms encase him, and his breath shudders. He doesn’t have the strength to shove whoever it is off, away, slumps into them, tries to find his composure, but comes up empty handed.

He wonders if he and Baekhyun are similar in this, too, and maybe that’s why Baekhyun tries to divert all serious situations from taking place with a well-placed joke.

The fingers are warm, the chest he finds himself pulled against strong, and the face his fingers brush against as a chin rests upon his head smooth. He thinks he should be embarrassed, but the tears are still coming, the sounds still aren’t, and he wants to stop, doesn’t want to feel all of this, but maybe he feels so much now because he hadn’t let himself before.

“You’ll make it through, Joy,” the person whispers into his hair, and he can feel the heat of something wet dropping onto his head, hears the sniffle of the person over his own. “You did good,” the voice whispers again, and Jongdae’s eyes press shut as a new wave of tears falls out of his eyes, as everything in him shakes and aches and _breaks_.

“So,” the voice above him cracks and the arms tighten a bit, reflexively, and Jongdae’s hands slide to grip the forearms of the person holding him tight, feel the heat of them against his palms and he clings like they’re his life line. “I’m here—I love you; I’m here.”

Yixing’s voice is trembling, and Jongdae can still feel his tears dropping on his head, making his own come harder. He knew he had made the right choice.

“So, don’t cry anymore, okay? Don’t cry—please—”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter ( @kxmjxngs )
> 
> Tell me your thoughts in the comments below!


End file.
